Dear Wigleaf,

I am wearing a mask at work. It is of Ronald Reagan if his face was a pizza and the dough was the flesh of an infant and the infant was crawling along a twee papier-mâché of the earth and the earth was being expulsed from a squatting homeless woman’s lower area and the homeless woman was royal-waving at her reflection in the window of an Olive Garden and the patrons inside were all chewed éclairs and all the éclairs were spent bullets and all the bullets were the teeth of all dogs and all dogs were on a Ferris wheel traveling Route 66 and Route 66 was the soapy tiled floor of my childhood bathroom and my childhood was an axblade glinting too sharply and the glinting was a golden eyetooth eyeing the sun from the muck and the sun was a sucked lozenge and the lozenge was the drain in a swimming pool and the swimming pool was a Slurpee congealing in the car heat and the car was a whale and the whale was the soundcheck of the resurrection of Jesus and Jesus was a candy cane and the candy cane was a hogtied octopus and the octopus had toaster pastry limbs and the toaster pastry limbs were eight members of the Red Hat Society holding Jell-o molds of dildos-past and Jell-o was fine art in a basement museum where a gorgon lives and the basement was the bosom of a stripper being motorboated by a pisspantsed frat boy and the frat boy ate pizza for every meal and once came 2nd in a Ronald Reagan lookalike contest. I am wearing this mask and no one recognizes me, and it is a disappointment.

Yours,

Lindsay






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Read LH's "Brenda's Kid."

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